


Lust & Liabilities

by bobaheadshark



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Office, Ben is so in love (what a loser), But then Rey emotionally doms him, Cockwarming, Come for the porn stay for the feelings, Cunnilingus, Dom!Kylo, Enemies-to-Lovers-lite, Equal power dynamics, Executive Dysfunction, F/M, From Sex to Love, Holy emotional intimacy batman, Literally fucking in the office on a conference call, Office Sex, Oneshot, Oral Sex, Poe Dameon (Cameo), Porn With Plot, Porn with Feelings, Private equity wankery, Rey Palpatine, Rose Tico (Cameo), Sex, So again they are even, Succession (TV)-influenced, Suit porn (her), Switching, Unprotected Sex, Vaginal Sex, What Have I Done, lowkey exhibitionism, rivals-to-lovers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-10
Updated: 2020-10-10
Packaged: 2021-03-07 17:21:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,895
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26931307
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bobaheadshark/pseuds/bobaheadshark
Summary: And it goes like this. Ben’s tie is strewn somewhere on the floor, all $350 of Brioni or Zegna or something fuckoff disgusting. The kind of wealth Rey would’ve spat at before she sold her soul to the Firm.But when he’s got his cock buried this deep inside her, it isn’t exactly a high concern on her list of priorities.–---Ben Solo’s next in line to take over at First Order Industries. He’s sworn to let nothing get in his way. No distractions, no attachments.So why is he sleeping with his rival for the position – Rey Palpatine?
Relationships: Rey/Ben Solo, Rey/Ben Solo | Kylo Ren
Comments: 86
Kudos: 489





	Lust & Liabilities

**Author's Note:**

> What do you get when you mash office hatesex with HBO's Succession vibes? Apparently, this. 
> 
> Thanks [Lepak](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lepak/pseuds/Lepak), [Kay](https://twitter.com/drkldykay), and [Ana](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lotrtrash/pseuds/lotrtrash) for the beta reads + putting up with my low-simmering self-doubt as I figured out this story. Thanks as well to [fanficula](https://twitter.com/fanficula) for the proofread.

* * *

Ben’s halfway talking about fiscal policy in his flattest voice when his control slips. It’s her fault, but she feels no guilt. He’s sheathed all the way inside her, in a place so deep that he stretches her to what must be her limit – even though they do this regularly enough that she should no longer be surprised by his size. 

It’s a good burn. The fullness, the want. Her current reality is how he pins her to the desk, stripping her of the need for thought and decision. No _Ms. Palpatine, would you like to sign off these documents?_ or _Ms. Palpatine, do we have the go-ahead on the D-funding?_ or _I’m sorry Ms. Palpatine, there’s nobody here in the records in ‘95, under that name. Can we help you with anything else?_

Instead, her mind’s whiting out from pleasure as she submits herself fully to Ben’s whims.

He’s behind her, one hand on her neck. Drawing circles on the column of her throat, holding her there with the idleness of a cat playing with prey. She resists the urge to gasp or to turn around and tell him exactly where he could shove his ego. But it’s hard to concentrate, when her brain is about to confetti into a million pieces.

The tip of his Oxfords brush the inside of her ankle as he nudges her legs further apart. Ben slides his cock slightly out – relishing the tease before he nudges back in. Like she’s nothing but a hole for him to use, and he’s bored by it. 

Rey bites down on her fist, resisting the urge to whimper. 

He doesn’t deserve that satisfaction. 

They always end up like this. Something about the witching hour, when the office lights blink off, and the chatter outside fades to silence. When all they have is the flickering city outside, the illumination of his desk lamp, and the barely concealed animosity between them both. 

By now, it’s a familiar routine. Snoke has convened them on the phone at 11pm, probably because he’s having a bad day wherever he is out East, and his CFO and COO are his favoured punching bags. (Neither of them leaves the office anyway – Ben once skipped his father’s funeral for a pitch meeting, and aside from her grandfather, Rey has no family to speak of – so it’s not like either of them are inconvenienced.)

And it goes like this. Ben’s tie is strewn somewhere on the floor, all $350 of Brioni or Zegna or something fuckoff disgusting. The kind of wealth Rey would’ve spat at before she sold her soul to the Firm. But when he’s got his cock buried this deep inside her, it isn’t exactly a high concern on her list of priorities. 

Ben, for his part, hasn’t bothered unbuttoning his shirt, fabric left in disarray where she had trailed her fingers across his chest underneath. All hard muscle and petulance. 

Rey thinks he may have popped a button in his haste, earlier. 

Rey enjoys that. 

They have what she might call a tacit understanding. An arch of her eyebrow was all it took for him to know that she wanted him: fly unzipped, pants at his ankles, right over his desk. And for all intents and purposes, she’s the one handing over control, here. But control is also more complicated than that – it’s in how she urges him on, how the hitch of her voice gets a little higher, how she shivers when he skims one hand down to the small of her back. It gives Rey a heady rush, offering Ben possession of her body where she’d normally not concede an inch.

 _Hatefucking_ . Rey thinks, as he moves inside her, slow. Using her pussy like a personal cockwarmer. _What they don’t tell you is how much you enjoy it_.

Ben’s not stupid enough to make noise when she clenches down on him, hard. Not when he’s supposed to be talking about CapEx and OpEx and balance sheets to Snoke, who’s still droning on about a reverse IPO. Instead, Ben’s grip on her hip gets that much firmer, sending a serotonin ping to Rey’s brain – that’s how much she likes the pain. A reminder that in the world she inhabits, one with made-up titles and words and deception and subterfuge, she is something vital. Heart beating, blood racing. Alive. 

She’s reminded of it again when his dick _twitches_ inside her. It’s a response so subtle, yet she’s so proud to have wrung it out of him, that she does exactly what he’s told her not to do. 

She clenches, again. 

“It’s not advisable to – sorry, incoming call”, Ben says. 

He slams the mute button and lays more of his weight on her. He’s like this, sometimes. Hovering on the edge of paper-thin control, ferocity of movement barely concealed for the sake of Rey’s pleasure. Rey’s caged in by his body, his breath hot on her shoulders. They haven’t bothered taking her dress off, either. Her Roland Mouret number’s bunched around her hips, while her underwear and blazer are somewhere in the corporate-carpet-graveyard – alongside his tie and her dignity. 

As if their rivalry hadn’t been embarrassing enough. For all the jokes by the senior associates that they both pretended not to hear – the ones about “maybe the two of them working out their fucking differences” – nobody needed to know they were doing so quite literally, and on a regular basis.

Rey refuses to be known by that cliché. Even if being completely and utterly dicked up is, in fact, her current reality. 

“Rey, sweetheart. What did I tell you? I need you to _relax,_ ” comes his voice, low and smooth in her ear, like water bubbling over a brook. He’s gone perfectly still, fingertips stroking up and down her side. 

She’s finding it increasingly difficult not to moan, even with the safety of that mute button. 

She also clocks that it’s the second time he’s used “sweetheart” in as many days. _That’s new_ , she thinks. _Doesn’t mean anything, of course._ So she lets it slide in favour of verbiage that feels closer to home. 

“How can I _relax_ when you’re cocking up my projects?” she grits out. To her humiliation, she’s sweating. “You missed a .4 on the Gantt.” 

To emphasise the point, she slants her hips further backwards onto him — so deep that she feels his balls brush against her arse.

Now, it’s his turn to growl.

“Oh, I can think of something I’m definitely cocking up. And it isn’t,” he grunts, as he pulls out and slides back into her with one appallingly smooth thrust. “– your projects.”

Rey gasps, and Ben covers her mouth to silence her as he hits unmute. 

“My view on the Thaereian index is that it’s untenable”, Ben says into the speakerphone, without missing a beat.

Rey has half an instinct to chime in with her views, but her pursuit of pleasure seems more important now than whatever’s happening on the call. The head of his cock brushes someplace deep, and it takes all of her self-control to not make a single sound. The desk he’s bent her over on is tall to fit his frame, and her hands are splayed in front of her, like Ben had asked. And though Rey spends half her life running Spartan races and can squat 185, she’s standing high on the tips of her toes, legs straining with the effort of gripping onto his cock with her cunt. 

The worst part is, he fucks her like he owns her. And still, she craves more. _Faster, shouldn’t, want him, bad fucking idea, fuck_ , she thinks as he slows again to shallow thrusts. He moves one hand down to press hard on her clit, which sends pleasure shooting straight up her spine. 

He’s edging her, and she can’t help but scrabble for purchase on the desk. Manicured fingertips leaving crescent moon marks on the vinyl. 

It’s illicit, and she drips with shame and arousal in his wood-panelled office. 

“Ben, you –” she whispers.

His voice is velvet-quiet. “What, sweetheart? Use your words.”

Ben’s arms are tight around Rey’s middle, and he wrenches her upwards in one smooth motion as he continues to thrust. She can feel Ben’s shirt sticking to the sweat on her back. 

“Were you saying something?” Ben murmurs in her ear, “you’re wrecking my furniture so well.” His breathing’s heavy, and his body’s like a furnace. 

This has the horrible effect of making her just that much wetter.

“You—” Rey starts.

“Hm?”

“You— fuck that’s…”

“Go on. Finish your sentence.”

“You disgust me.” Rey whispers back. 

“That’s right. I do. Why do you think you like this so much?”

She moans, and then she’s coming. Pleasure cresting, on the horizon, and she can do nothing, want nothing else, than to ride it out. She falls apart in front of him, into a million fragments of sweat and lust and want and shame, and she enjoys it.

She hopes that at some point, he had the sense to re-mute the damn call.

“That’s good, Rey.”

“Yeah?” _Why do I sound so breathless?_ “Can think of something better.”

Rey grits her teeth and bears down on him, and suddenly he lets go, coming inside her with a growl. 

The voices talking in the background of the conference call might as well be static.

It should be embarrassing, the way Rey’s panting like she’s just run a marathon. She’s probably left a sweat-shaped mark of her tits on his island of a desk. 

Moving would be a welcome distraction from her own embarrassment, so she takes a step away from the circle of his arms to collect her clothes. But Ben doesn’t want to let go, just yet. Seems happy to hold onto her, trailing his nose along her ear in a way that’s probably supposed to telegraph _thank you_. 

The effect’s undone when he nips at her shoulder with his teeth. His possessiveness is always at its maximum when he’s just finished inside her. 

(He also likes it when she yanks her lace panties back on, come still dripping down her thighs.)

(She likes it too. But she makes him pay for every new pair.)

“Hey, Solo.” Rey says, trying to regain her footing on more neutral ground. “Fuck you.”

“Ah. The problem is...” he says, tucking an errant strand of hair behind her ear, and she tamps down the instinct to react, because a traitorous voice inside her is saying _please, wait–_ “I already am.”

  
––––––   
  


When Snoke had paired him up with Rey Palpatine, he’d expected someone a little more feral and a little less, well, her. 

“I thought we were done with the part where I babysit Associates,” he’d told Snoke.

“She’s no associate, Solo. She’s your competition.” 

That was all the reply Ben got before Snoke turned back to his computer, and signaled that the conversation was over. 

Ben’s mental cogs had whirred as Mitaka ushered him down the hallway to a nondescript boardroom. He knew of her name, almost as well as the tabloids knew his. She of the real estate Palpatines, the very same ones who’d blindsided First Order Industries with the hostile takeover. 

_She’s not a threat,_ he tells himself. _She’s nobody_.

Ben figured this was punishment for his fuckup on Hosnian Solar last year. But experience also taught him that Snoke never liked to dole out penalties so openly, preferring instead to dispense retribution in a thousand tiny cuts. Once, Ben had been so exhausted and hopped up on stimulants from 21-hour days that he made a rare slip on a financial forecast while pitching investors in North Africa. Snoke had said barely a word about it, but five days into the trip had simply walked out and left Ben in a Tunisian hotel lobby in the middle of a military coup. 

It was only through Ben’s sheer willpower and rusty Arabic that he’d even made it out alive. 

Snoke had cards to play, Ben knew. Jockeying for a position with the new company owner was just one of many possibilities.

_We’ll see._

Ben’s interrupted by the glass doors swishing open as Rey walks in, five minutes early. _She’s polished_ , he thinks. Not like Leia, with her Clintonesque practicality. No, Rey is a switchblade swathed in expensive cobalt wool: suit fitted at the shoulders, and slightly flared at the leg. Clothes designed to be sleek, yet unembellished enough to telegraph the message: _I might be the granddaughter of London’s most ruthless billionaire. But I am one of you._

Ben knows, from the record, how wrong that is. 

A simple search from Mitaka beforehand had proven that much. Nobody in the inner Palpatine circle left unintentional fingerprints across the internet, so he knew that the image that Ms. Palpatine curated was careful. Deliberate. Even so, he was still riveted by the story. The forgotten child. A sixteen-year-old nobody, spotted solving equations on a Jakku Community College blackboard. Caught on a viral video, claimed by a prominent family.. He recalls the whirl of newspaper clippings with perfect clarity: her, at nineteen, smiling into the camera at the Paris _Bal des débutantes_. Her, twenty, steel and promise in her gaze as one of the few women in the Pembroke College math cohort. Her, at twenty-three, shaking hands with Admiral Ackbar at Davos. Her, stepping out of cars with a string of forgettable partners across multiple continents. Her, twenty-six, arms crossed on the cover of Fortune’s 30 under 30, under a headline that christened her a “millennial salvo for an out-of-touch empire”. 

And though her relationship with Palpatine Sr. had been volatile at first, by all accounts, Rey had taken to the family business. 

_Rey Palpatine, the twenty seven year old heir apparent to Galactic Corp. (LSE:GLCT), has a proclivity to nose out what most would consider to be_ _lost-cause investments_ , the FT proclaimed. Or, Ben thinks, she chooses pet project investments and pools money from other companies to fund them – even if it means sucking the latter dry, and leaving the original companies as little more than shells. 

It’s ruthless, but effective. And it’s great PR.

He also thinks that anybody caught up in her long-lost-orphan story would be a fool to believe that now. Not with the way she leans with one palm on the table and slings one leg casually across the other. Establishing her dominion at the place where he, and the top-billers known amongst the EA’s gossip pool as “the Knights”, play dominoes with global financial markets. 

Besides, she’s 5’7 of prestige incarnate. Palpatine Sr. has sent a rose, laced with venom.

Ben can’t help but stare.

“Nice of you to dress for the occasion.” _Where the fuck did that come from?_ “You must be Rey.”

“And you must be mistaken if you think I’m going to be parked here, bringing you tea and biscuits while we play ‘follow the leader’ on Bloomberg terminals.”

She doesn’t move to shake his hand. That makes him smirk. He leans against a metal column that makes up the exoskeleton of the F.O. building.

“That’s a shame. There’s a place down on Plom and Strand that serves a great afternoon tea.”

“My, my. Hitting on your younger coworker during the first meeting?” 

“Am I? I thought the warm welcome was mutual.”

She strides towards him, close enough that he can see the green that rings the center of her eyes. He isn’t sure why that is an important detail, but it singes her into his consciousness for hours afterwards. 

“Got to give it to you,” she continues, “it takes a special kind of overconfidence to flout HR’s guidance so very callously. You go by Skywalker, like the failed eco reserve, right? Or is it Organa, like the General?” He sees the glint in her eyes, and he can sense the veiled threat from a mile off. “I know a nepotism hire when I see one.” 

The two feet of carpet that separates them feels like a gulf. 

“If I’m a nepotism hire, what does that make you?”

Rey’s smile is brittle, and there’s a cajoling warmth in her voice that never reaches her eyes.

“A survivor, Mr. Solo.”  
  


––––––   
  


It takes them about seventeen arguments before they come to an understanding. Eleven P.M. after an exhausting day getting pummelled by Palpatine Sr. about “lacklustre results” and “piece-of-shit dividends”. Despite it all, the night is crisp. Snow falls. Right on the cusp before the flurry turns to slush, and the streets below become a deathtrap for Ben’s 6’2 frame.

One minute, he’s half-thinking about snowploughs, and then the next, he’s fixated with the suit she has on that day. Green and yellow paisley, which on anybody else would look like bad carpet in a dingy Irish pub, but on her, simply screams _money_ . It’s all just this far on the side of too much. Discounting the fact that she regularly demolishes him in the boardroom and knows exactly how to push his buttons. And yeah, he’s supposed to keep it professional, but how can he not pay attention when she snip-snaps down the hallway like it’s a personal runway? Pastel pink in heavy satin, when she’s feeling especially testy; double-breasted grey plaid when they’re about to play FCA foosball with the legal team; and one that he’s loathe to admit is his personal favourite – wine-red, high-collar, with a fucking _cape_. 

He swears she’s conspiring with her tailor to mess with his head, and his cock. And Rey is a crimson Diana, swanning into his office earlier that week to tell him she’d bet thirty mil on a startup that specialises in democratising access to sanitary products. The nature of the company, he had no problem with. It’s the audacity with which she did it, finding every possible loophole in the Firm’s investment guidelines and stringing threads through them, just for sport. 

Her sheer competency, more than anything, is what makes his cock twitch at highly inopportune times. Like now. When he and Rey have run the numbers on _Project Finalizer_ and know the outlook’s shaky, at best. But neither is willing to admit that the root of the failure is institutional – Snoke’s overborrowed and overleveraged, and they can’t fix that – so they’re yelling at each other, instead. 

They’re in the middle of a heated argument, one of their usual ones about the merits of shareholder activism and shadow investing. Close enough, nose-to-nose, that he can see her brow wrinkling like it usually does — when she disagrees with something he’s said, and wants to press a point for the sake of defiance.

Then, without explanation, her legs are around his hips. She kisses him, and he asks: _is this what you want?_ and she nods. He pinches her perfect little tits, and her gasp is all the permission he needs to yank the cups of her bra down and suck on her hardened nipples. She palms his throbbing cock through Givenchy’s winter finest, and his brain is short-circuiting from desire and disbelief.

He rucks into the inside of her stockinged thighs like some sex-deprived teenager, overcome with an intense wave of _want, yes, more, mine._

He doesn’t need her to know that he comes, very quickly, inside his pants. But he can tell she figures it out anyway, because she raises a fist to her mouth and stifles a laugh when he straightens himself out. 

And when she whispers _again?_ he actually gets to savour it. Instead of fucking her with a desperation that he tries very hard, afterwards, not to think too much about. 

He fails.   
  


––––––   
  


The first time she lets him fuck her face-to-face, it’s way too intimate. At first, she makes him stick to the routine, asking him to put his hands on her cunt from behind. He knows he’s done a good job plying her body exactly the way she likes, because she’s pulsing around his fingers in a way that threatens to send his brain spiraling into nonsense, and she’s moaning into one of his bajillion thread count pillows. 

He traces his mouth along the ridges of her spine, down to the middle of her back. Liquid heat pools around the two fingers he’s got buried deep inside her, satisfaction washing over him.

There’s a moment between them to breathe. Then Rey whines, swirling her hips on his hand.

“Mmm, Ben.”

She starts to drip. Right out of her cunt, marking the top of his sheets. _There it is._ He’s always amazed by it, and he’s pretending like he’s not going to bury his damn face in her scent once she leaves, like the monster that he is. 

(He remembers that Rey smells like citrus, musk, and cinnamon.)

(She doesn’t need to know that he once spent three hours traversing several department stores, trying to find her exact scent.)

“Tell me what you want, sweetheart,” he says.

“Fuck,” she says. His one hand that isn’t buried in her cunt is palming her ass. “I — _mm,_ want to come. C’mon Ben. It’s so boring when you hold back.”

“Ah, let me make it last. You look so good.” 

_None of this is personal_ , he repeats to himself, like a mantra. Sure, in the three months since they started this, they’ve had sex in more places than he can count, laying waste to an assortment of bathrooms and hotel rooms across the city. But the thing that strikes him most is how naturally they’ve moved from fucking in his and her corner offices – how well he knows not to use her filing cabinet for leverage because they _really_ need to get that handle fixed – to how quickly she’s acquiesced to leaving spare pairs of underwear in his top drawer. Not lacy spares, but the reusable ones for her period, too. 

He’ll take small victories, where he can get them.

He would classify what they have as...an uncomplicated intimacy. But if Ben were honest about it, physical pleasure aside, she gets under his skin. It’s like she sees his track record for what it is (money-grabbing, soulless, until the tail of the Firm eats itself), and finds a way to turn hairline cracks in his long-extinct morality into actual fissures. Because she invests in companies that actually _mean_ something to her. As if she cares.

For a fleeting moment, he finds himself wishing she would care about him. 

And as the early morning light streams through the windows and draws bars across her skin, he finally gives in to the one thing that he’s never dared to ask.

“Turn around.”

Rey freezes. A wavy strand of hair falls onto her face. She sweeps it back, stunned out of her pleasure haze and into full consciousness.

“What?” 

“I said, turn around, Rey. Please.”

There’s a moment of drawn out silence as she contemplates the question. It should be weird, he thinks, how comfortable it feels for him to retract his fingers and gently circle her clit. She arches her back at that, riding his knuckles.

It’s enjoyable, watching her. That he knows her body like a violinist knows their instrument. Rey’s ass is still high in front of him, where he can see her pussy clenching on air. He takes his time, tracing some of her come that’s dripped out and beaded on her inner thigh. He draws aimless patterns on her skin as if to say: _like me. Choose me. Want me for… more than what this is._

“Why?” Rey finally asks. She scoots a little upwards so she’s on all fours, still spread and open to him, uncertainty in her expression. She’s looking back over her shoulder – not at him, but seemingly at an overpriced-modernist-paint-blob on the wall. 

He drinks in how striking she looks in profile, with the freckles dusted across her nose.

“I want to see you.” Ben says. 

“You’re looking right at me.”

“Not like that.” 

“ _You may wish to ask your optician if your prescription is right for you_ ,” she quips, using her best TV voice.

Ben refuses to let her off the hook that easily. “I mean it.”

She sighs. There is the familiar irritation in her expression, but also, a new curiosity. 

True to Palpatine form, of course, she won’t offer him anything without driving a hard bargain.

“I’ll turn around if you can make me come again,” Rey says.

“Now there’s a winning idea.” 

In one smooth motion, he’s flipped her. She’s on her back, and he catches a glimpse of her bemused expression as she tries to squirm away from him. He pins her in place with one hand, taking in how undone she looks: hair not slicked back or tied up in that high bun she favours in the office, but falling in loose waves around her face. Body relaxed, in his bed. 

“You’re supposed to make me come _before_ you flip me.”

“Mm. Loophole,” he says, tracing the elegant swoop of her jaw.

Leisurely, he drinks in every inch of her skin, skimming downwards to trail kisses on a breast, a rib, the lower dip of her stomach. When he reaches the nub of her clit, he teases her with his nose and his mouth. That elicits a whine from her as she cards her fingers through his hair. 

He could come from the sheer ecstasy of it. Of her. But he won’t, because she hasn’t let him. So instead, he drags his fingers along her labia to spread her apart, and dips his tongue slightly into her warmth, knowing she’s already ready for him. Her hips snap up, but he goes slow – licking a stripe up her pussy and stopping to nibble her inner thigh. Teasing her until she’s writhing.

For a second, his whole world’s reduced to her babbled praise: _Ben_ and _jesus_ and _fuck_ and _so good please don’t stop please don’t make me beg,_ before he caves and he’s working his fingers into her again, right below where his nose brushes up against her clit. She’s practically riding his face, with how hard she’s pressing her hands on the back of his head. 

The pleasure of it makes him drunk. And he can’t help it – he laughs, like it’s a tiny miracle, when she gushes. Wet everywhere. 

He barely notices that his cock’s twitching against his thigh as she’s panting out her release. And then he’s moving on autopilot, stepping out of his boxers, before he’s settled himself between her legs again. 

Now, he really looks into her eyes. Sees desire blown large in her hazel gaze. 

There’s a blush high on her cheeks, and he resists the urge to put his palm there. Because that’s the line they’d agreed, although he feels like it’s eroding by the day. Physical contact is fine – the red that he’d left on her ass cheeks from the past several dalliances makes that point more than clear, and he knows exactly what her pain threshold is. (High.) 

But this close, face-to-face? Intimacy, with Rey? Rey, who lives in schedules of 15-minute calendar blocks and restricted access and pre-planned nutrient-dense meals, spending her entire Sunday in his bed? 

Someone wants him. That’s a feeling he’s never really known.

“You okay?” Ben asks. He’s not sure if the question’s for himself, or her.

She nods twice. Sucks in a breath.

“Isn’t this the part where you fuck me?”

“Yeah.”

Her smile is honey. “Shall we dispense with the ceremony?”

It doesn’t take much further encouragement for him to proceed. He sinks his cock into her, and she’s already so soft and so tight, the sensation’s enough for him to buck like a goddamned animal. 

“Rey, I need you to come for me now.” _Give me everything_ , he thinks. “Can you do that for me?”

“Yes, fuck. Yes-fuck, _yes, please.”_

In the back of his mind, there’s an alarm blaring – low and steady, message indecipherable. Ben shifts the angl _e just so,_ and the noise from his subconscious gets clarion-clear. 

This pleasure, suffused with the certainty that being with her? 

Feels like home. 

He gives in to intimacy. Lays his face close to hers, cheek-to-cheek. Tells her, “use me, Rey, any way you want,” and Rey goes “ _oh”,_ and then she’s coming, cunt fluttering around him, for a third time.

He sighs into her hair and he’s enjoying how her body relaxes under his. He’s thinking about how to get her to four, but then she snakes her arms around him and whispers: 

“Join me, please...” 

And that’s all it takes. The plea wrenches his orgasm out of him, and he’s coming in thick, hot spurts.

It doesn’t feel like any of the times that they’ve fucked before.

For a while, there’s just the sound of them breathing heavy, in the aftermath. As he gathers his wits, Rey gives a cough, and he realises he’s near-crushed her with his weight. Recovery comes in the form of a slightly awkward half-push-up position, but he also doesn’t want to pull out of her yet. Possessiveness and pride flare in his chest as he thinks about how they mark each other. Her, on his bed and he, inside her, where nobody can see. 

Miraculously, it makes his dick twitch a little despite the exhaustion, and Rey tilts her head at him as if to say _really?_

It takes them a few minutes and the comedown, before reality truly sets in. 

“This doesn’t mean that I like you.” Rey says, unconvincingly.

He lays a kiss on her collarbone.

“I know.”   
  


–––––– 

  
Leaving, as it turns out, is easier than Rey had anticipated. Because the day that she rides the elevator up to Level 83 and says “fuck you” to her grandfather, is the same day that Ben tenders his resignation, too.

 _The problem with emperors,_ she thinks _, is they spend so long chasing elephants, they forget about the rats waiting in the reeds._

By her estimation, the one-line email and dossier she sent from an untraceable IP address about the GLCT’s Energy Division cover-up is probably arriving in _The Coruscant Tribune’_ s inbox in – she checks her watch, – _3, 2, 1...now._

Her phone dings. Messages, from R. Tico: 

_Hey, so Erso’s working on the piece_

_Said you were right about the scoop. She’s pulled a favour with Andor to get more people on it._

_I can’t believe we did it…_

_But worth it, isn’t it? Tearing up this town ;)_

Rey looks up at the slate-grey wallpaper of the hallway. Imagines databytes and terabytes, ping-ponging around devices and terminals. Analysts scrambling. Desperation and panic beading in sweat, dampening perfectly-starched collars. 

As she glides past the assistants on Sheev’s floor and the phones that are starting to ring, the corners of her mouth edge up in a smile. 

She gets into the lift, and the doors slide almost completely shut. But not before a familiar rumbling voice says “hold it, please,” — and Rey’s heart threatens to lodge itself in her throat.

It’s Ben who steps in and hits _Close_. 

_So, what’s the protocol for when your archrival resigns right after you?_

Neither of them seem sure what to say, so both elect to maintain a diplomatic silence. They stand shoulder-to-shoulder, watching the white floor numbers tick downwards. Words about “crisis of succession” and “scandal” roll across the lift’s TV screen, harbingers of doom in size 14 font.

Staring into the chrome of the elevator doors, Rey thinks, inexplicably, of game theory. She recalls long summer days searching for videos on computers in the public library, typing innumerable combinations of “Texas Hold’Em” and “best cheat” and “trick dealing,” always one click away from something faster, greater, smarter to play. She thinks of the worn book she kept under her pillow, the one constant she had in her string of foster homes, and the dog-eared page about the _Nash Equilibrium_ : when an outcome is achieved, and no player can increase payoff by changing decisions unilaterally. 

The seniors she used to play with would have given it a different name: “no take-backs.”

Of all the calculations Rey could have made, this outcome was also not one she could have predicted. And for once in her life, she isn’t sure what happens next.

Ben clears his throat.

“Heard you quit.” 

“It sounded like a good idea, taking some of that long-fabled annual leave.” Rey says. She steals a glance at him. “S’pose you did, too.”

He shrugs, shoulders rising and falling like a tidal wave. “Yeah. Could say that.”

The image on the lift TV has moved to a montage of fiery oil rigs and arid fields. Flowers fall into themselves, forming dust. A reporter shuffles papers with gravitas. The news cycles on to the weather report: squalls and thunderstorms in the Southwest. 

The scenes pass in a blink of an eye, but storms make Rey think of Maz.

She wonders if Maz would be proud, of the person she’s become.

Fabric rustles as Ben shoves his hands in his pockets, jolting Rey out of her thoughts. Nonetheless, she doesn’t feel a particular urge to fill this silence. She’s always found comfort in solitude. 

Instead, she drums a familiar pattern on her upper thigh for reassurance. _54321, 43251, 321, 54..._

“Why did you do it?” he finally asks. 

The words are simple, but she hears the second question inferred in his tone. _What made you turn?_

Rey has asked herself those questions, too. In the mirror while she’s brushing her teeth. Staring out at the city below from the glass window of her cavernous office. The answers she’s arrived at have varied: _Because my grandfather was the one who found me, but I was Rey before I was a Palpatine. Because I don’t want to gut the world, just to bloat more companies that are too big to fail. Because I’m more than my name, and a legacy._

But all are concentric circles of reasoning, leading back to a central pillar of truth. 

“Because I needed to.” 

He nods like he understands. “Rey, I –”, he starts, but the lift number dings at 60, and the doors swish open. 

They stare into the face of a surprised intern, who holds a tray of Starbucks coffees and stares back. The intern immediately clocks who they are, and shakes her head twice as if to say _I’m good, thanks._

So the lift continues its descent, and there’s a slight ringing in Rey’s ears that has nothing to do with her ear pressure. Ben’s still talking, but her phone’s vibrating in her pocket. Distracted, Rey reaches for it, and blue text bubbles flash up:

_Erso says she’s got everything for the first writeup._

_But they’re gonna need to expand it, ‘cus she got another file drop from an anonymous source_

_Ofc she won’t say who it’s from. But I joined the dots (obvs), and the IP’s from a well-known tipster in like, the weirder corners of HNNleaks..._

_ever heard of a Kyl.0.Ren?_

Ben’s still deep in his monologue, probably halfway to declaring his undying affection. “– you’re one of the best fund managers in the whole city. Any firm would be lucky to have you –” he says.

But Rey _knows_ that name… seen it flash up on Ben’s personal laptop on their weekends off. Noticed him snapping his laptop shut in a hurry, when he thinks she hasn’t seen. 

“Kylo Ren? That’s an old nickname,” he explained once, when he showed her an old yearbook photo of him with his ears still sticking out under his hair. “Silly teenage stuff,” he’d said, nonchalant. The only other time she’s seen him use the ID is logging into the deep archive section of the F.O. intranet. _Which must mean that he…_

“– you’re brilliant, and talented, and fuck, you’re amazing. You could have any job you want, anywhere you want, anything you want –” Ben says.

The enormity of what he’s done dawns on her. She turns and loops her arms around Ben’s neck, hope ballooning tentatively in her chest. His eyes widen in surprise, and his lips, _which are still irritatingly soft_ , she thinks, are slightly apart when he stares at her. 

“Ben, you absolute dolt.” Rey says, cutting him off. “I want _you._ ” 

So when Rey closes the distance between them and crushes his mouth in a kiss, it’s not very graceful. Yet heat flares, white-hot in her gut all the same. His hands land on her back – _so big_ , she thinks – and he pulls her close like he’s desperate to taste her, to ruin her right there in the lift. 

“I should sue you,” she says, between frantic kisses, “for the amount of emotional stress,” she adds, reaching for the emergency stop button, “you’ve caused me, in the last few months.”

“Oh, I think we’re pretty damn even,” comes his reply as he reaches for the zipper of her dress. 

His mouth feels hot on her collarbone, and he’s so solid against her, and then his fingers are on her bra clasp, and he’s so hard through his pants, and she thinks _god, is this always going to be_ –

_Ding._

They spring apart like they’ve been scalded. Then they’re both blinking at Poe’s serene expression.

It takes Rey another second to register that she’s dropped both arms away from Ben, but he’s still holding onto her hand like it’s a lifebuoy.

Poe gives them the once over, and elects not to say anything about their disheveled state. “So I heard about your dramatic exit,” he starts, pushing one hand on the lift door sensor to stop it from shutting. “Very Skywalker, if you ask me.” 

“Poe.” Ben says, all curt and businesslike. Poe’s nod back to him is quick, as if to say _don’t interrupt me right now dude I’m speech-ing here._

Rey rolls her eyes. _Men._

“And about your plan”, Poe continues. “Love it, want it, I’m in. Finn and Rose too. With equity, of course.”

Rey smiles. She can practically smell the ink drying on the company registration, and the possibilities that await. 

“Consider it done.” Rey says. 

Ben looks over at her, slightly shell-shocked. “Wait, you had this all planned?”

“But of course. I never jump out of a plane without knowing all the odds. Isn’t that the saying?”

“That’s not how–”

“Well, that’s great.” Poe interjects. “Whatever’s going on between you, I hope it’s happy and that our new office contract comes with _very_ strong disinfectant.”

Rey says “what do you mean–” at the same time that Ben says “how did you know–” 

“But hey, if it means we keep closing deals like you two do…” Poe puts his hands up in a good approximation of the shrug emoji. “I’m not complaining. Anyway. See you at Cantina in five, I’ll get us margaritas. Oh, and Solo’s paying,” Poe says, as he beelines towards the building’s exit. 

Rey shakes her head in disbelief. 

“We have got our work cut out for us,” she says.

“Yeah. Yeah we do,” says Ben, slightly dazed.

She realises she’s not actually asked him to join the new firm, yet. 

It’s amusing to her, how he’s basically already said yes.

She and Ben glance around the lobby, absorbing its mundane details for the very last time. The _whoosh_ of the gantries opening are the only sound that accompanies their unassuming exit. 

“How long?” he says.

“Hm?”

“Before your granddaddy hits us with the full firepower of legal?”

“I give it two and a half working days.”

“Optimistic.”

“Please. It’s pragmatism. Sheev hates that someone’s thought of a plan before he’s had a chance to decimate them first. He likes to think he’s giving us a head start.”

Ben gives a low chuckle of agreement.

They’re almost at the huge glass doors, and Rey can see the city beyond. The late afternoon light glints off the building opposite, a blade of white in the corner of her vision. 

Rey turns to him. “Hey.” There’s a smudge of lipstick on the side of Ben’s mouth, which Rey reaches up to wipe away. “You missed a spot.”

He catches her wrist, and there’s a warm earnestness in his eyes. 

“Rey, what I did in there…”

“Wait, no. Stop there. You, broody Dark Lord, catching feelings?”

His brows drop into an expression of annoyance. “I’m being serious.”

“Put this in the record books. Sentimentality? From the Supreme Leader himself?”

He narrows his eyes at her. “That joke is two years old.”

“Ben, please. You broke Mitaka’s laptop over a meme.”

“I said sorry.”

“You’re still an asshole.”

“An asshole who you like.” Ben pulls her closer. “Just, let me get this out of my system, will you?”

She chuckles. “Alright.”

“What happened in there. Today. It’s been coming. For...a long time.”

“Very eloquent,” she teases, poking him in the chest. “And, I know. Thank you.”

It’s simple, but also strangely fitting, how they don’t need to say more than that. Somehow, Rey knows there will be many days ahead of them where they can unpack this moment, but right now, this works just fine. 

The city whirrs on in the distance. The spring afternoon warms her face. 

“So.” Ben says. “A nobody, and a washup. What now?”

Rey stands a little straighter. The breeze rustles her hair, and the day is liminal with possibilities. 

“Fucked if I know,” she says, weaving her fingers through his. “But let’s go and find out.”

**Author's Note:**

> Would Ben Solo or Rey Palps be friends with Kendall Roy? Would Shiv eat Sheev alive in a hostile takeover? Who has the fancier Amex, Ben or Rey? Yell at me in the comments.
> 
> Kudos, concrit, and comments always welcome. 
> 
> #
> 
> Some references
> 
> [Thraereian](https://starwars.fandom.com/wiki/Thaereian_Stock_Certificate) Index
> 
> [HNN](https://starwars.fandom.com/wiki/HoloNet_News)
> 
> [Nash equilibrium](https://corporatefinanceinstitute.com/resources/knowledge/economics/nash-equilibrium-game-theory/)
> 
> [Davos](https://www.bbc.com/news/technology-51134164)
> 
> #
> 
> And, say hi to me on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/bobaheadshark) where I chipchirp a lot about Reylo and other fandom stuff!


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